


let's then despise what is not courage my darling

by inber



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Confessions, Costume Parties & Masquerades, Costumes, Established Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, F/M, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Illusions, Light Angst, M/M, Magic, Multi, Not Canon Compliant, OT3, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:33:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27182501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inber/pseuds/inber
Summary: 'Not a witcher, a mutant freak to be ogled and prodded and spat at. Not a hero of ballads and legend, champion of trembling mortal folk. Here, he was just... nobody.The realisation overwhelmed Geralt with possibility.'After Yennefer lines up a contract for him, Geralt meets Jaskier at a masquerade and neither of them know it. Angst, tenderness, and revelations ensue.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 43
Kudos: 263





	let's then despise what is not courage my darling

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for this prompt: _Jaskier and Geralt are both at a masked ball without knowing that the other one is there. They don’t recognize each other at first, dance and flirt... (don’t ask me why Geralt didn’t recognize Jaskier, maybe a magic mask?)_ from [Ellie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllieStormfound).
> 
> [This](https://i.imgur.com/pMvZwpm.jpg) is what I picture Jaskier wearing, and [this](https://i.imgur.com/HZzKf00.jpg) is what I picture Geralt wearing.
> 
> idk what canon is, she doesn't go here. Enjoy!

“This is excessive, Yennefer.” Geralt said, scowling at his reflection. “I'm going to do a job. I can just go as myself.”

“Nonsense,” Yennefer breezed, brushing some of her own hair from his shoulder, “it's an enchanted ball. If you don't follow the rules, you'll stand out, and your cover will be compromised. You can hardly be expected to watch lord whats-his-tits if everyone is watching you.”

“Lord Mazur.”

“Whatever,” Yennefer said, “my point stands.”

Geralt groaned theatrically. “Remind me why I'm doing this, again?”

“Money, sweet witcher.” Yennefer circled him, eyeing the intricacies of his outfit with no small measure of satisfaction. “Lord Kazur--”

“Mazur.”

“Right. He's paying you an awful lot, because he's a paranoid little weevil. And I introduced you two. Therefore, we're all benefiting; you are working, I am taking the smallest commission, and the lord won't be assassinated. We all win.”

“Don't see why you can't go in my stead.” Geralt groused.

“Because I am very busy and important.” Yennefer said, standing on tip-toes to press a smooch to his freshly-shaven cheek. “You don't have to be yourself tonight, Geralt. The mask will hide your identity. You can eat and drink and I don't know, maybe you'll even laugh or have a dance. No one will be any the wiser that the great white wolf is double-fisting the hors d'oeuvres.”

“Yen,” Geralt whined, a last-ditch attempt at saving himself, “I look like a fucking peacock.”

“That's the point.” Yennefer grinned, and handed him a slimline black satin mask, trimmed with purple and emerald stones that shimmered when the light struck them. “Just have some fun, Geralt. I shan't wait up.”

As if facing the gallows and not a noble event – _same fucking thing,_ Geralt thought, maudlin – Geralt took the mask, sighed, and secured it on his face. He did need the coin. Yennefer would never admit it, but she did, too.

Geralt paused only to kiss Yennefer's forehead in passing before he left for the grand estate.

* * *

How odd it was, to be himself, and yet utterly unrecognisable. When he gazed in the mirror within the privy, Geralt found himself bewildered. It was simple magic – everyone at the ball had a similar mask – but it was highly effective. Even with his heightened resistance to enchantments, Geralt found himself fooled by the illusions. He saw people as they were, and yet he did not truly see them; it was as though his brain could not grasp detail for longer than a nanosecond before it was sliding forgotten through the folds of his cerebrum.

Were it not for his other honed senses, he'd have made a poor guard. Thankfully, his hearing remained acute, and his ability to read intention through body language was unshakeable. Although the many mingled scents of the party-goers, the rich foods and wine, and the scented smoke of the braziers hobbled his olfactory talents somewhat, he could still scent various emotions when he concentrated.

Largely, Geralt detected joy and lust. These smells escalated as the wine flowed, turning ever-more gleeful as people cavorted and chatted. Instinctively, he clung to the outskirts of the hall, watchful.

It was not to be a brief affair. He recognised Lord Mazur by a distinctive red velvet peacoat, embroidered with white roses – a detail they had agreed upon prior to the event – and as time passed, Geralt realised the truth of Yennefer's words. The man _was_ skittish, preferring to stay within his private circle, even though nothing threatened his safety. In-breeding amongst nobility tended to produce peculiar psychoses.

Passing people spoke to Geralt. They complimented his suit, asked after his health, pointed out decorations to him. Geralt found the interactions wholly bizarre, resorting to polite but short responses, unused to being part of a crowd.

That is what he was, for the first time. Simply one of many. Not a witcher, a mutant freak to be ogled and prodded and spat at. Not a hero of ballads and legend, champion of trembling mortal folk. Here, he was just... _nobody._

The realisation overwhelmed Geralt with possibility.

If he so wished, Geralt could wander over to the banquet table and load up a plate. He could fill a goblet of wine from the flowing fountains. Fuck, what had Yennefer said? Geralt could go to the dance floor and join the crowd there. No one would question it. No one would bat an eyelash.

He sat frozen with indecision.

“Quite the to-do, isn't it?” A pleasant voice struck through Geralt's reverie, and he looked up. A man stood before him, gloved hand wrapped around a cup of wine, confident hip cocked. He was dressed like someone who actually understood fashion (or, unlike Geralt, was not afraid of it), a pair of black trousers slung invitingly low on the sharp slash of his pelvis. Across his torso, navy silk cinched his waist in and climbed up his chest to fasten to a golden collar around his throat. A sleeveless black shirt beneath this material kept him modest, even if the opulent blue fabric demanded attention, billowing down his legs dress-like.

In his high-buttoned dark doublet, accented only by a capelet of fur and a couple of golden trimmings, Geralt felt both prudish and simple. Yennefer had tried to get Geralt to wear something more modern, but the effort had resulted in a petty argument. Now, Geralt wished he'd taken a bit of a risk.

But he was free to do so. Take a risk. He didn't know this lovely creature, and the nobleman would have no way of knowing he was conversing with a lowly witcher. Geralt felt his skin prickle with the private thrill of it.

“It really is.” Geralt agreed, smiling. “Never been to anything like it.”

“Nor I.” The man said, sipping from his cup. “Couldn't turn down the invitation when I got it. A night in which to forget yourself? Alluring, I thought.”

“I didn't understand the allure until I got here.” Geralt admitted. “I thought it was just going to be another dull courtly event. I hate them.”

The man laughed. “Ah, if you attend enough of them, you learn to make your own fun. I agree, though. They can be rather... same-ish.”

Geralt nodded. He thought to ask the other man's name, but realised that doing so would intrude upon their illusion. Instead, he pushed away from the wooden beam upon which he was leaning, inclining his head towards the buffet.

“I'm a bit thirsty, and I'm afraid all those puffy cheese things will be devoured, if I don't make a move.” Geralt cleared his throat. “Would you, uh, care for a refill?”

“I would, actually,” The handsome courtier agreed, beaming, “shall I accompany you down there?”

Without thinking, Geralt offered the crook of his elbow. The man took it up, dainty in his movements, and Geralt felt the warmth of him even through all their many layers. It was just a charade, acting as though he was worthy of escorting this fine gent' anywhere, but Geralt found himself intoxicated by it. No one need ever know the truth.

Oddly, Geralt relaxed rather quickly into the other man's company. They filled their wine cups, raided the best of the nibbles, and found an overstuffed brocade bench upon which to perch and chat. Periodically, Geralt glanced over at the lord, but always found him in the same position; rigid, slightly sweaty, and surrounded by friends.

“...which is why I— _oop!_ ” The silk-swathed man put his hand over his mouth. “Almost gave too much away. It's rather hard to converse and stay utterly anonymous, isn't it?”

Geralt grinned. “We could discuss the weather, or the political situation in Redania, or--”

“Oh, how tiresome.” His companion groaned, taking another bite of the miniature cheese soufflé. “Tell me a secret instead. Tell me – tell me your biggest fear.”

Inside his chest, Geralt's heart tripped over a beat. Being so vulnerable with a stranger went against every lesson he'd ever been taught. For a time, he nibbled at his lower lip, examining the consequences, before he leaned back to rest against the wall for support.

“I don't fear much, for myself.” Geralt said, honestly. “The fears I have – they are for other people. I fear something will happen to me, or them, and they'll never know... how much I care about them.”

The man was silent, considering this. “How odd,” he whispered, “my fear is quite similar. I'm afraid I'll move through life and never find the courage to confess my deepest loves. And my cowardice will cost me, when it is too late.”

Geralt took a large gulp of his wine. “We are a pair of fools, then. Why do we not tell these people how we feel when we have the chance?”

“Ah,” The man sighed, “it's fear, remember? Rejection, or mockery – I cannot speak for you, but I keep the secret close because I think the rebuff might very well kill me.”

“Hmm.” Geralt dipped his head, thinking. It was true. It was also far too somber. “Right, your greatest joy, then. Or one of them. Tell me.”

“Easy,” The man said, “I enjoy travelling. Meeting new folk, seeing new things, experiences – both good and bad. I want to devour the Continent whole. I have seen many things, and yet I have seen nothing. Plus, I—well. Sometimes I get to travel with a good friend.”

“Let me guess. This friend – they are the one you love?”

“One of them, yes.” The stranger smiled into his drink. “It's part of the joy.”

“Funny how joy and pain can overlap, isn't it?” Geralt remarked, suddenly philosophical under the grip of the alcohol.

“Bittersweetness is exquisite.”

“Sometimes.” Geralt said. Then he sat up again. “One of my joys is—well, it's rather simple, after what you just said.”

“Go on, tell me.” The man nudged him.

“A long, hot bath, a clean bed, and someone to share it.”

“Simple indeed.” His company tilted his head. “The someone – describe them. Are they well endowed? Voluptuous? Is it the sort of bed-breaking sex--”

“No,” Geralt interrupted, “it's not... about that. I just like being close. Being safe, held.”

The stranger fell silent. Geralt's cheeks flushed rosy. He tried to hide his awkwardness in the rim of his cup.

“Told you it was simple--”

“Actually, it's perfect.” The man said, placing his hand on Geralt's thigh. “It really is.”

Geralt stared at the face that he could not see, his pulse fluttering high in his throat. The tip of a peony-pink tongue darted out, the man wetting his own lips. Incrementally, Geralt began to lean forward, entranced.

“Sweet Melitele!” Someone screeched, across the room, “That man has a dagger!”

Reality slammed Geralt back into honed attention. He leapt up from the chair, feline-focused eyes catching the glint of silver before it was thrown, whipped violently from beneath an assassin's cloak. As the tight-coil of his thighs propelled him forward, he reached out with a hand and cast aard with precision, redirecting the dagger from its deadly path, causing it to embed deeply within the wood of a side-door.

Chaos erupted around him, but Geralt dodged people as they fled, never losing sight of his target. Once the would-be assassin realised he'd failed, he reached for a second weapon. Geralt slammed into him before he could so much as wrap his fingers around the hilt.

The two grappled, punches exchanged, but Geralt had the upper hand in terms of momentum and genetics. He snarled, forcing the varlet to the ground, forearm heavy against his trachea, enough to bruise. Hard enough to promise a quick crush.

“Who sent you?” Geralt demanded, fang-pearl teeth bared.

The assassin spit at him. Geralt bore down harder. Beneath him, the man wheezed.

“It's not worth your life, boy,” Geralt hissed, “give me a name.”

“B-Baron--”

Before he could gasp out the full title, the lad convulsed beneath him. Geralt cursed, lifting his weight, but there was little that he could do. Geralt shoved up the man's dress-sleeve to reveal a sorcerer's mark, glowing an insidious green. His death was quick.

“I told you, witcher!” Lord Mazur wailed, pale as a sheet, protected by a pair of guards. “I told you they were after me!”

Around him, the people began to whisper, afeared, shaken by the events. In the tussle, Geralt's mask had slipped, and he stood over a corpse, revealed for what he truly was. Wild of eye, he glanced over at his mysterious friend.

The man had a hand over his mouth, just as aghast as everyone else.

“Witcher.” The mutters began. “There was a _witcher_ amongst us. Ooh, this whole night!”

“How vile!”

“Did I dance with him? Did _you_ dance with him? Let's go, I wish to wash.”

Geralt swallowed the hard lump in his throat. “Are you in safe care now, my lord?” He kept his gaze on Mazur, tunnel-vision, willing everything else around him to fade away.

“I am. You can pick up your coin tomorrow. I must go, for now.” With a dramatic whine, Lord Mazur was escorted away.

This had been a job, that was all. If Geralt had forgotten that, even for a moment, that was his failing. He could wear an enchanted mask for the rest of his life, but it would not change what he was. Killer, outsider. Butcher.

Geralt strode towards the exit, away from the cowering crowd. He thought he heard the whisper of his name, but it was too tangled with other murmurs. Pushing through the heavy door, Geralt left the party and all its illusions behind.

* * *

Yennefer knew better than to press Geralt for details when he returned, shedding the fine clothing in a rage, his expression carefully blank. He left his mind open to her, letting her cherry-pick what she wished from it. It was easier than recounting the whole sordid affair.

Upstairs, a heated bath awaited him. More magic. Geralt had almost had his fill of it, but he knew Yennefer often communicated her affection in gestures, as did he. With a groan, he sank into the unscented water, scrubbing his skin like he could slough the events of the ball away.

After an hour had passed, Yennefer appeared in the doorway, carrying a bottle of dwarven spirit and a small jug of plum juice to chase it. She settled herself in a chair, measuring out the drink, and handing a cup over to Geralt. He took it thankfully.

“I'm sorry, Geralt.” Yennefer said, reaching over to place a hand on his knee.

Geralt grunted. “You couldn't have known.”

“No. But still, you had a horrible evening, and I am sorry for it.”

The strong drink hit the back of Geralt's throat as he tipped it into his mouth in one go. Yennefer didn't remark upon this; she simply offered the plum juice, and a refill. He accepted both.

“I just... maybe it was the wine. I don't know why I acted so stupidly.”

“You weren't stupid, Geralt. You acted as if any of us might in your situation. Freely.” Yennefer sipped the liquor. “I'd have made much more of a spectacle than you did.”

“It's like I forgot. Their faces, after, Yen. Fuck.” Miserably, Geralt rubbed at his face.

“You did your job. You saved that lord's life.”

“I know.” Geralt skimmed over the fight in his memory, and ultimately came back to the mystery man, draped in royal blue.

_Why do we not tell these people how we feel when we have the chance?_

“I—Yennefer,” Geralt muttered, meeting her eyes briefly, “I... love you. I hope you know that I do.”

Reaching over, Yennefer brushed her thumb against Geralt's jawline. “I do know. Just as you know that I love you.”

Some of the tension relaxed from between Geralt's eyebrows. He rose from the tub, wrapping a bath-sheet around himself. Yennefer stayed seated.

“That man in blue,” She said, “I know you think you saw terror on his face in the aftermath. But in your memories, he looks... well. Not afraid. It's something else.”

“Doesn't matter.” Geralt mumbled.

“Alright.” Yennefer agreed, rising. “To bed? We needn't speak any more on the matter tonight.”

“Yen, if you're just placating me because of what I said to that man--”

“Oh, hush up. You think I don't enjoy your warmth, too? Dry off, get under the covers. It'll feel better tomorrow. Oi, _tsk!_ On _your_ side, please. Just because you're upset does not mean you get the best spot.” Yennefer shooed with her fingers.

Geralt grumbled beneath his breath, but as Yennefer slotted against his back, he found the smallest smile curving the corners of his mouth.

* * *

“Lord Mazur will see you presently.” An exhausted-looking servant informed Geralt, who was seated stiffly in a parlour chair.

“Thank you.” Geralt said, desperately hoping that 'presently' actually meant very soon. He was uncomfortable with the teacup that had been given to him. Too fine, too small in his hand.

“Send him in, Peter!” Lord Mazur's voice rang from an adjacent room. “Send in my hero, my saviour. Lord Pankratz and I are happy to receive him, are we not?”

Jaskier was here? Geralt stood, pleased that he'd see his friend. Perhaps Jaskier could temper the lord some, as well; from the slur of his words, it sounded as though he'd been given quite a few relaxing remedies.

“Ahh, there he is.” Lord Mazur enthused, flinging out a hand in greeting as Geralt walked through the door. “A thousand thank-yous, master witcher. Much of last night is foggy to me, but I know you saved my very life.”

“My lord.” Geralt inclined his head. “Jaskier, well met.”

Jaskier smiled, fiddling with a finger-sandwich. He seemed nervous. Best to get the business over with, Geralt thought.

“You're here for your coin, yes, of course,” Lord Mazur predicted, scrabbling about in a lockbox beside him, “and here it is. I added an extra two—three? Ahh, I can't recall. Couple of hundred crowns for a job well done, witcher.”

“That's very generous,” Geralt said, taking the heavy pouch, “thank you.”

“Of course, of course.” The lord waved. “I am told that my assassin managed to say the word 'baron' before he expired, but did he mention anything else?”

“No, my lord.” Geralt said. “He was marked by magic. If he failed his mission, a spell would poison him. Simple war tactic to prevent the spread of information.”

“Tsk,” Lord Mazur said, “nevermind. We'll find out more in time. I did tell you, witcher! I told him, did I not, Lord Pankratz?”

“Erm, I am sure you did, my lord.”

“Right, that's right.”

“Well, stay safe, my lord.” Geralt ducked his head in an approximation of a bow. “Do you mind if I borrow your company for a moment?”

“I was just leaving!” Jaskier said, springing to his feet. “Good to see you, my lord.”

“Huh? Oh, yes, yes.” Lord Mazur mumbled, half-awake. “Til next time, my friend.”

Geralt left the room first, shadowed by Jaskier, and the two were shown out by the manservant. Geralt whistled, hefting the purse. By weight, it was nearly double what he'd been owed.

“If only all my contractors were inebriated.”

Jaskier laughed as though Geralt had said something fiercely witty. “Yes! If, if only.”

Geralt squinted one eye at the bard. “Are you quite alright, Jaskier?”

“Hmm? Yes. Oh, yes. I, uh, I heard you'd be in the area. Wanted to catch up. Where are you staying?”

“With Yen, not too far from here.”

“Right, of course.” Jaskier turned even paler.

“Jaskier...?”

“Sorry! Rather a lot to drink last night, you know how it is. Would she—erm. Would you both mind a visitor? I'd hate to impose, you see. Actually, never mind--”

“Jaskier.” Geralt laid a steady hand on the other man's shoulder. “You know Yen is fond of you. Come with me. You ride Roach. You need some water and rest.”

Jaskier seemed too out of it to argue as Geralt helped him atop the saddle. In silence, they headed down the road. The entire time, Jaskier's heart drummed so fast that Geralt feared he'd faint.

* * *

“Yen!” Geralt called, when they stepped through the threshold, “I found Jaskier!”

“Oh, excellent,” Yennefer snarked, although there a smirk quirked her lips, “where? In a pile of refuse?”

“Lord Mazur's house, actually.”

“Same thing.” Yennefer eyed Jaskier critically. Then she relaxed her posture. “Come here, bard, you look as though you've come across a wraith.”

“Hello, Yennefer.” Jaskier smiled a wobbly-thin smile.

“Into the sitting room,” Geralt decided, “I'll fetch water.”

Jaskier sank gratefully onto a lounge, directed by Yennefer, who sat opposite. Geralt appeared with refreshments, pushing the mug into Jaskier's hands. He sat on the couch beside the bard.

“This is—well. It's all rather difficult.” Jaskier said.

“You'll be fine, I've seen you hungover heaps of times before--”

“I'm not hungover, Geralt.” Jaskier interrupted. He winced, sipped the water, and dropped his gaze. “I'm... I was there.”

“Where?”

Yennefer crossed her legs primly, silent.

“At the ball. Last night.”

“Oh.” Geralt frowned. He didn't particularly enjoy the fact that his best friend was privy to his public disgrace, but if anyone would understand Geralt's distress - aside from Yen - it was Jaskier. “Rather a mess, wasn't it?”

“Quite.” Jaskier agreed. “But before that nastiness went down, I... met someone. He said a lot of things that made sense.” The water quivered in the cup as Jaskier's hands shook.

“What kind of someone?” Geralt asked, wondering at the odd streak of jealousy that twisted in his stomach.

“The kind that you only meet once in your life, and you should never let go of.” Jaskier did not raise his gaze. “I've met two people like that in my time.”

“Stop talking nonsense riddles, Jaskier.” Geralt groused. “You know I don't understand poetry--”

Silently, Jaskier removed an item from his pocket. The light glinted off the polished metal. A golden collar.

Geralt stared, remembering the navy fabric that had woven into it the night before. The throat it had clasped around. He felt struck foolish, frozen where he sat.

“I'd rather take my chances now, even if I am to wither away from heartbreak.” Jaskier lifted his chin, bright eyes brimming. “I care about both of you. More and more every day. And if I do not say this, if I do not tell you now – perhaps I never will. I don't want to lay on my deathbed and regret the love I didn't confess. So, here it is.”

The collar clattered gently as Jaskier laid it on the small table.

Yennefer let her eyes roam over the object, maintaining her quiet. Geralt drew in sharp breaths, his head whirling. The easiness, the conversation... the almost-brush of lips.

“It was you.” Geralt said, redundantly. “I was drawn to you, and you to me, and neither of us knew.”

Jaskier nodded, sniffing. He smeared the tears from his cheeks with his hands. “The things you said – they gave me hope. Please, both of you,” Jaskier's eyes met Yennefer's, “I need to know if you can accept the way I feel for you.”

Picking up the collar, Yennefer ran her fingertips along the edges of the metal. “Silly bard.” She purred. “It took you so long.”

Geralt gaped, attention flitting between Yennefer and Jaskier, caught in a whorl of feelings. “I-I'm the friend. I'm... part of the joy.”

“Yes, Geralt,” Jaskier contained a sob with his palm, “always. Since I met you. And then we met Yennefer and it just grew, and it _grew,_ and I cannot—I simply—oh, for Melilete's sake, say something!”

“We're going to need a bigger bed.”

Yennefer snorted, and Jaskier made a sound halfway between a wail and a chuckle. Geralt raised his arm, loping it around Jaskier's shoulders. The bard leaned into him.

“Can't believe our first kiss was almost at a stupid ball.”

“Can't believe you didn't say Roach was your joy.”

“Can't believe,” Yennefer said, “that I am now involved with not one, but two idiots. _Ugh._ How can I be so immaculate, and yet have such poor taste?”

There were some aspects of life that would simply stay masked for witchers, sorceresses, and humans alike, and alas, her question would forever remain a mystery.

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on tumblr @inber :)


End file.
